


and i thought what i felt was simple

by coshie



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Footnotes, Good Omens Big Bang, Happy Ending, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Like a lot of alcohol, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Angst, arguments about dumb things, don't drink as a coping mechanism kids, wallowing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22565302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coshie/pseuds/coshie
Summary: After spending the night together after Armageddidn’t, Crowley and Aziraphale completely avoid talking about what happened.    It takes the excruciatingly long, never-ending span of three entire days before Crowley snaps and has to say something, and ends up admitting to his not-so-repressed love.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 74
Kudos: 193
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. monday morning

**Author's Note:**

> _and i thought what i felt was simple_  
>  _and i thought that i don't belong_  
>  _and now that i am leaving_  
>  _now i know that i did something wrong_  
>  _'cause i missed you_  
>  \-- stay (i missed you), lisa loeb
> 
> * * *
> 
> here is my fic for the good omens big bang! there have been so many great fics written for this event, and it's exciting to be here! chapter 5 will be the lovely and wonderful artwork that [nathansinart](https://nathansinart.tumblr.com/) produced for this story! look forward to it!
> 
> * * *
> 
> special thanks to [miss-minnelli](https://miss-minnelli.tumblr.com/) for her amazing beta'ing, and to one of the most lovely people i know, [mckayla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybe_i_dont_want__heaven/works), for encouraging me to keep going when i lost my motivation. couldn't have finished this fic without you both!

_one :: monday morning_

The Apocalypse was stopped.

Heaven and Hell backed off.

Bookshop and Bentely were restored.

Life, such as it was, went on.

“Yes, just there is perfect, my dear, thank you,” Aziraphale called from across the shop. “The rest of the box can be put up as well, if you’re feeling up to it.”

Crowley rolled his eyes to himself with a smile. “I already agreed to help, angel,” he called back, already unloading the books from the box at his feet and lining them up on the topmost level of the shelf he was in front of. “Bring the other box over, there’s still room here.”

A few seconds later, Aziraphale appeared down the aisle with another box full of books, which he set down next to the one already there. “He did do his best,” Aziraphale said, glancing around at the shelves, “but bless him, he had no sense of organization.”

“Kid’s eleven,” Crowley pointed out, shelving the last of the books from the first box and moving on to the new one. “And _I_ don’t even understand how you organize this place, no wonder Adam couldn’t figure it out.”

Aziraphale chuckled a little and picked up the empty box. “I suppose I should just be grateful that he restored the shop at all.”

“He did his best,” Crowley echoed back, a tad sarcastic, as the angel bustled off to unshelve more books.

Crowley had arrived at the bookshop about an hour ago to find it closed. He had entered anyway, and found Aziraphale carefully removing books from the shelves and putting them into boxes. Crowley’s first[1] thought was that he was moving,; but Aziraphale quickly explained that, now that he had the time to take proper stock of the shop, he had found the books to be terribly out of order.[2] This was an issue he planned to spend the day remedying. Crowley initially planned to lounge around and watch him, but one too many “oh my”s and “goodness me”s convinced him to offer his assistance to speed the process along.

“I was thinking about taking a break soon for lunch,” Aziraphale said, returning with another box. “These can go there, on the next shelf over; leave the bottom one here empty, if you please. How would you feel about Italian? I saw a new restaurant had opened a few weeks ago, and I’ve been meaning to go.”

“Haven’t had Italian in a while,” Crowley mused. “Yeah, why not.”

“Oh, lovely.” Aziraphale beamed. “They make all of their pasta in-house from scratch, and it’s supposed to be just _divine_.”

Crowley paused in lining some books up, and turned to look at Aziraphale over his glasses with a pointedly disgusted look.

Aziraphale laughed. “A figure of speech, my dear.”

Crowley rolled his eyes with a smile again, and turned back to the books. “Yeah, yeah, all right. Lemme finish these boxes, and we’ll go.”

Aziraphale agreed, and disappeared again.

When he was sure Aziraphale was out of earshot, he sighed and let his head fall forward against the shelf. This was getting harder by the day. And it had only barely been two days; at this rate, he was going to snap by midweek.

Because they weren't talking about it.

Saturday night, Apocalypse averted, Crowley had invited Aziraphale over to spend the night because the angel had no bookshop to return to. And so he had, looking a little awkward among Crowley's things until the demon had produced another couple bottles of alcohol, and they were able to drink away the concerns about implications of the situation.

"Y'should try sleeping," Crowley had told him as midnight passed them. They were both rather drunk. "After ev'rything that happened, you don't think y'could sleep?"

"It's not a matter of, of _could_ ," Aziraphale had explained, gesticulating broadly with his glass, "of course I _could_ , but it isn't necessary, my dear, I don't _need_ to."

Crowley had laughed and stood and tugged Aziraphale up with him and pulled him into the bedroom. "We're gonna sleep," he told the angel firmly, pushing a set of soft white pajamas into his hands. "You're gonna enjoy it."

It had taken the better part of two hours before either of them were actually asleep, but in the end, they had both enjoyed it rather a lot.

But when they had awoken Sunday morning, there was little time to talk about the previous night, because instead they had to play the part of each other in order to face down Hell and Heaven. And obviously lunch at the Ritz that day was full of conversation about their supposed trials and/or executions. Certainly no space for the implications of Saturday night.

And now it was Monday, and now they had a bookshop to reorganize, so _clearly_ there were more important things to be discussing than whatever might have happened Saturday night.

"Almost done?" Aziraphale's voice reached him through the shelves.

Crowley straightened hastily and pushed the last few books onto the shelf. "Yeah, all done with this lot," he called back, taking the empty boxes with him as he joined the angel. "Lunch, then?"

"Lunch," Aziraphale agreed with a smile.

Like the bookshop, the Bentley had been restored to the best of Adam’s ability; that is to say, it was near-perfect.

 _I was fine, just a guy livin’ on my own_ , the radio played, _waitin’ for the sky to fall._

“Give it a couple weeks,” Crowley muttered, trying to change the station to no avail. “Been playing all this music from the past decade, can’t get it to stop.[3] And I swear, angel, if you say ‘bebop’, I will not be responsible for my actions.”

Aziraphale just chuckled. “I’m sure we’ll manage just fine, my dear.”

_Velvet lips and the eyes to pull me in; we both know you’d already win. Mm, your original sin._

Crowley glanced over at the angel. Aziraphale was looking out of the window with a gentle smile on his face, his hands clasped comfortably in his lap. For once, he didn’t seem terribly uneasy in the car. Though, Crowley mused as he turned his attention back to the road, this might be because they were travelling at closer to the speed limit than usual.[5]

_Does she know that my destiny lies with her?_

“So,” Crowley said a little louder than he meant to. He cleared his throat and took a quick peek at the angel, who had turned to look at him. “So uh. Aside from books being out of order, shop’s all right and proper?”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “I’m really quite grateful. You know, throughout the entire ordeal with trying to get to the air base after being discorporated, and then attempting to avert Armageddon, I didn’t truly have time to process the loss of my bookshop; but afterwards, it all sank in, and throughout that night…” He trailed off. Crowley was keeping his eyes determinedly forward, but still saw the angel glance at him in his peripheral vision. 

Tension.

_I don’t mind, take your time, I’ve got things to do besides sit around and wait for you---_

Crowley wished the Bentley would _shut up_ , but would settle for gripping the steering wheel very tightly and watching his knuckles turn white.

They weren’t talking about it. He wanted to talk about it, but not like this, not in the car on the way to lunch. Ideally, they would talk about it after getting absolutely soused so that there was plenty of plausible deniability for whatever turn the conversation might take.

“Well,” Aziraphale continued as the moment passed; Crowley let his death grip relax, “I had come to terms with the loss, only to wake the next morning to find everything back in order. Really, it’s quite nice to think that I didn’t lose my collection after all.”

“Must be nice to not have to rebuild the shop, either,” Crowley guessed.

Aziraphale didn’t respond immediately. Crowley turned to look at him. The angel smiled a little and dropped his gaze. “Honestly,” he said quietly, “I’m not sure I would have opened a new shop.”

Crowley stared at him in open disbelief. “What are you talking about? You’ve had that shop for---”

“Eyes on the road, please!”

“---ages, why wouldn’t you want to reopen it?”

“Crowley!”

He swerved to avoid a taxi without looking at it; this conversation was much more important than the lives or possessions of some humans. “Why?” he repeated to get Aziraphale’s attention back on topic.

Any calmness that Aziraphale had had was now gone; his hands were on the dashboard as though bracing for impact, and an all-too-familiar look of barely concealed panic was plastered over his face. Crowley rolled his eyes with a huff, but they had arrived at the restaurant anyway; so he parked.

But before getting out, he turned in his seat so his entire body was angled towards Aziraphale. “Angel. What are you talking about?”

Aziraphale sighed, and relaxed a little now that they weren’t a second away from discorporation. “I wouldn’t have reopened my shop if it hadn’t been restored,” he said again, but - and Crowley couldn’t help but find this odd - he was avoiding looking at the demon. “I spent centuries building my collection, and certainly I would have begun collecting once again, but… well. The thought occurred to me that it might have been nice to…” There was hesitation written in every line and curve of the angel’s body.

“To?” Crowley prompted when the silence stretched.

“To move on,” Aziraphale said simply.

Crowley opened his mouth to respond, but was surprised to find he didn’t actually have anything to say. He mouth closed with a snap.

If Aziraphale had noticed this, he made no indication and continued, “It just seemed silly to start over from nothing, especially given that the world had very nearly ended. I was thinking of… oh, I don’t know, a cottage on the coast, perhaps. Of course, in the end, it hardly matters, because the shop was restored, so--- is everything alrightall right, my dear?” He had finally looked over at his companion to find that Crowley’s expression was caught between utter astonishment, and something that looked an awful lot like hurt.

“You…” Crowley swallowed heavily, trying to arrange his expression into something that more closely resembled his usual nonchalance. “You would have left?” There was something about finding out that at some point during the night they had spent together (and were still steadfastly avoiding talking about, despite clearly being on the precipice of it), Aziraphale had been thinking about leaving London; it wasn’t quite sitting right with Crowley.

“I--- oh.” Aziraphale blinked. His eyes fell to his lap, where he found that he was clasping his hands together more tightly than necessary.

Neither of them said anything for a full minute.

Then, Aziraphale took a carefully measured breath, unclasped his hands, and turned to face Crowley. “You wouldn’t have wanted to leave,” he said quietly.

“I--- what?” Crowley had been pushing down wave after wave of emotion - the realization that he had almost lost something very important to him coupled with the realization that he still could lose it at any moment, the faint ring of betrayal behind the angel’s words, the shock of the apparent imbalance of their feelings - but this latest statement had completely derailed any relevant response he might have been composing.

“It was presumptuous of me, I now realize,” Aziraphale explained, sounding inexplicably apologetic. “Of course, I would have discussed it properly with you, but like I said, it ceased to be relevant when we awoke in the morning---”

“Angel, what are you talking about?” Crowley asked, exasperated.

“You wouldn’t have wanted to leave,” he repeated. “It seems obvious now; you are quite comfortable in the city. But---”

“This isn’t about _me_ going anywhere, we were talking about _you_ leaving,” Crowley cut him off with a vague, somewhat half-hearted gesture.

“Well, I had assumed you would have been coming with me,” Aziraphale said in a tone that made it quite clear that he had thought this was fairly obvious.

Crowley did something he rarely did. He blinked.

“W-with…?” His voice had apparently followed his train of thought off the cliff it had just careened over. “ _With_ you?” he choked out.

This seemed to explain everything to Aziraphale, whose expression lightened immediately. He leaned forward with a smile to take one of Crowley’s hands in his. “Oh my dear, did you think I would have left without you? Don’t be ridiculous, how could I?”

Crowley stared at their hands. His thoughts were somehow completely absent and far too fast at the same time. Was it suddenly too hot in the car? What was that buzzing noise? Was sunlight always this loud?

“Let’s get some lunch,” Aziraphale suggested, his thumb stroking a soothing line across the back of Crowley’s hand.

“Lunch,” he repeated faintly, the word connecting to absolutely nothing in his memory. How did humans cope with having so many things to feel in such a small vessel?

Aziraphale chuckled and gave his hand a little squeeze. “Let’s get some lunch,” he said again, a little more slowly, “and then, I do believe I unearthed a lovely bottle of some rather old scotch that we should endeavor to enjoy together afterwards. Does that sound good?”

What Crowley wanted to say was, “Anything sounds good when you suggest it, angel, especially if it means spending more time with you, because I would follow you anywhere, be it lunch or a cottage by the sea. City life be damned! I don’t need anything else as long as I have you. You are everything I could ever want, and that you would doubt for a second that I would have followed you out of London is - quite frankly - one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever heard. The only reason I have ever called this blessed city ‘home’ is because you were here, too; because that’s what home is for me, angel: you.”

What Crowley actually said was, “Nnhok.”

  
  
\--

[1] - first, and rather panicky and anxious [return]

[2] - That is to say, they were more-or-less in alphabetical order by title, which - of course - was completely unacceptable. Though Adam had restored the world to its rightful state almost perfectly, there were bound to be some mistakes. [return]

[3] - As far as Crowley could tell, the car was playing whatever music it felt like playing, nevermind any radio stations or CDs/cassettes he might try to play. He suspected it chose different songs whenever Aziraphale was in the car with him.[4] He was hopeful that a fortnight would once again normalize all music within the car. [return]

[4] - It did.

[5] - It had been an unconscious decision on his part; Crowley had driven the Bentley - almost literally - through Hell, and had watched its death throes on the tarmac in Tadfield. He wasn't quite ready to go through that emotional roller coaster again quite so soon. [return]


	2. monday evening

_two :: monday evening_

Lunch was quiet. Well, Crowley actually did quite a bit of talking, but nothing of any substance was said, and Aziraphale seemed content to listen with occasional input. Whatever had happened in the car was staying there.

“You said something about scotch,” Crowley said as they left the restaurant about an hour later.

Aziraphale smiled brightly. “Oh yes. When taking stock of any changes around the shop, I found a bottle hidden away in my desk. I must have been saving it for a special occasion, and I’m rather inclined to think that averting Armageddon qualifies.”

“If it doesn’t, dunno what would,” Crowley mumbled with a small smirk. He folded himself into the Bentley as Aziraphale settled into his own seat. Crowley hesitated.

“Is everything all right, my dear?” Aziraphale prompted.

_“You wouldn’t have wanted to leave.”_

Crowley swallowed heavily. “Peachy,” he said simply, and started the car.

Aziraphale might not be nearly as adept at the act as Crowley was, but he could still recognize a lie.

  
  
  


The blinds had all been drawn, leaving the bookshop looking entirely uninviting[1]. The angel cheerfully unlocked the door and let them in, chatting away about how nice it would be to have the shop closed for a few days in order to reorganize everything, and isn’t it just lovely to have the chance to become properly reacquainted with the inventory? Crowley grunted in half-hearted agreement, already halfway to the familiar and very comfortable couch in the backroom, onto which he deposited himself with graceful inelegance.

“This must have been a gift,” Aziraphale was saying as he appeared in the backroom as well, carrying the scotch in question, a somewhat dusty-looking bottle with a faded red ribbon around its neck. “It’s a real shame I can’t seem to recall from whom.”

“Been long dead, anyway[2],” Crowley said with a shrug, picking up one of the glasses that had obediently appeared on the table nearby. “Go on, then.”

Aziraphale sat on the opposite end of the couch, and poured a measure into each glass before setting the bottle down. “A toast?” he prompted, holding his glass up. “To avoiding the untimely end of the world?”

Crowley snorted, straightening a bit so he could hold his glass up as well. “To the rebellious little shit of an Anitchrist who stopped it,” he added.

Aziraphale smiled as they tapped their glasses together, and drank. It was, indeed, very good scotch.

  
  


“No, no, you’re not--- not lis’ning,” Crowley insisted, gesturing messily with his half-filled glass. He had been seated on the floor for the past hour after he had slipped off the couch in conjunction with a chaotic miming of something that neither of them had really understood. He emptied his glass before he could spill it, and set it down heavily on the table next to the half-empty bottle. “S’not th’ point, birds,” he continued, leveling Aziraphale with an entirely unsteady stare. He had lost his glasses at some point, so it was easy to see that his gaze was rather unfocused. “S’not what ‘m talkin’ about. S’the _wings_ , wings, not--- not birds.”

“Yes, but,” Aziraphale pressed, blinking owlishly at the demon, “birds have _wings_ , don’t they? S’what makes them birds. I think.”

Crowley groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “S’not the _point_ ,” he said firmly. “Point is, wings, there’s all sorts, ‘nd they’re all from--- from--- based on, no, _based on_ angels. They are,” his tone turned petulant when Aziraphale’s eyebrows began an ascent that Crowley - even while very inebriated - recognized as doubt, “they _are_ , s’my point, here, pour me another.”

Aziraphale obliged after he refilled his own, nearly missing Crowley’s glass even though it was sitting quite still. They both sat back as they sipped, apparently considering this point that Crowley seemed insistent on making.

“But,” Aziraphale began; he pushed on as Crowley opened his mouth, “ _but_ why birds? All the animals She made, why util--- utilll--- make use of, of angels for _birds_?”

“Birds’re not the point!” Crowley set his glass down again, and scrambled up onto his knees so he could lean forward towards Aziraphale; he steadied himself with one arm in the angel’s lap when he swayed, and threw his other arm out in a wide arc. “Could’ve been fish, or cats, or an’thing, but s’the birds who got wings.”

“So you’re saying,” Aziraphale said very carefully, peering down at the demon staring imploringly up at him, “you’re saying s’the birds who’re closest to angels.”

Crowley crumpled with a cry of frustration, burying his face in his arms. “No, _no_ , s’not my point,” he grumbled into Aziraphale’s knees.

“Then m’sorry, my dear, dreadfully sorry, really, but I just can’t see your point,” Aziraphale explained with a sigh, giving Crowley’s head a little pat as he took a sip of his scotch.[3]

They fell into silence again. Crowley was beginning to realize what he’d done in his eagerness to make his point, which was putting his head more-or-less in Aziraphale’s lap; and he was also realizing that Aziraphale was now petting his head, stroking through his hair, as if this was all perfectly normal.

As if something very similar hadn’t happened two nights ago.

His heart began to pick up its pace, and when he swallowed, he could feel it working its way up his throat. Two nights ago, when they shared a bed and refused to mention it the next morning. Two nights ago, when Crowley had gotten dangerously close to saying what he had promised himself he would never say. Two nights ago, when Aziraphale had apparently been contemplating leaving London.

“Did you mean it?” Crowley mumbled without lifting his head. He regretted saying it immediately after the words left his mouth. He didn't really want to have this conversation. He needed to, yes, but he didn't _want_ to.

“Did I mean what, my dear?” Aziraphale prompted.

Crowley very briefly considered sobering up, but wasn’t really sure if he could handle what he knew would be the onslaught of unfettered emotion. No, the scotch was acting as a nice numbing agent right now, and he would take advantage of that. “You said, in th’ car, you said you were gonna leave.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, narrowing his eyes at the top of Crowley’s head. “I _said_ I would’ve left, if the shop,” he gestured about them, “wasn’t here.”

“But you meant it,” Crowley pressed.

“‘Course I meant it, no point being in London without my shop.”

“And--- and when you said… you said me, coming with you.” Crowley’s voice had gone very quiet.

Aziraphale carefully set his glass down, and brushed both of his hands through Crowley’s hair before attempting to gently coax Crowley to look up at him. The demon tilted his head up to reveal only his eyes. Aziraphale was smiling softly. “My dear, of _course_ you would’ve been welcome to join me. As I said, I _assumed_. Assumed you would be.”

“No,” Crowley said, squeezing his eyes shut. He quickly buried his face in his arms again, leaving the angel’s hands abandoned and empty. “No, you said--- thought, you _thought_ I wouldn’t leave th’ city.”

“I… well.” Aziraphale’s hands hesitated, hovering above the demon hunched over his knees. He lowered them so they rested on Crowley’s back. “Well, you are--- my dear, th’ city, _this_ city, suits you, it suits you. I thought…”

“You _assumed_ ,” Crowley corrected. “You assumed I wouldn’t follow you.”

“ _No_ , I assumed you wouldn’t leave---”

“You didn’t think I’d want to follow you, go with you, _be_ with you?” Something searing hot was pushing away the deeper levels of intoxication, and Crowley was left feeling raw. Angry. He pulled back from Aziraphale roughly, refusing to look at him, and pulled himself to his feet. “S’been six thousand years,” he reminded the suddenly stunned-looking angel, casting around for his sunglasses. He found them perched precariously on a stack of books. “Six thousand years, and---” He shoved the glasses sharply onto his nose. “And everything I said that night, everything I--- and you thought---”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale croaked. His voice was weak, and he looked confused. He sat forward, as if about to stand up, but Crowley swung around, and even with his eyes hidden once again, the glare he wore was clear in every line of his face. Aziraphale felt frozen.

“Fine, we won’t talk about it,” he snapped, “because that’s what we do best, isn’t it? Not talk about things. Remember Egypt? We don’t talk about that. Or Germany? No, not that either.” He couldn’t tell how drunk he actually was, or if he even was any longer.[4] “And don’t get me _started_ on how much we _don’t_ talk about Alexandria.”

“Crowley---” Aziraphale tried again, his tone turning towards pleading.

“Six thousand years, angel, and I have followed you _everywhere_ ,” he hissed, advancing on the angel. “Everywhere across this damned, blessed planet. I have _followed you_. And that you would--- for even a _second_ , you would _doubt_ \---” His chest was tightening, making the sharp pain at the center feel more and more like he was being stabbed. “And then I said--- _everything_ , I said everything that night, but no, no, because we _don’t talk about that_.”

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale implored, finally pushing himself to his feet. He seemed to be at a complete loss for what had happened, what had gone wrong. He was also decidedly sober. “We can talk _now_ , we can---”

Bile was rising in Crowley’s throat. He felt sick, he felt completely disgusted with himself, he felt as though every word out of Aziraphale’s mouth was another blade digging deeper and deeper towards his core. “We can talk _now_?!” he shouted. Aziraphale leapt back in surprise, and the look of shock, of betrayal, of complete lack of understanding cut deeper than anything else. Crowley’s voice hitched higher and louder. “Oh, _now_ we can talk! And why _now_ , Aziraphale, hm? Is it because something’s finally gone wrong? Because it’s suddenly _inconvenient_ for you to pretend like there’s not something else going on here?”

“Now that’s hardly---”

“Fair?!” Crowley finished for him, advancing another step and brandishing a finger. “When has anything ever been _fair_? Never! It’s _never_ been fair, not since the beginning! And you have the gall to try to call _me_ out on that _now_?”

Since his words didn’t seem to be able to get through to the demon, Aziraphale reached out to try to take Crowley’s hand in an attempt to calm him down. Crowley pulled his hand away before the angel could touch him. “ _Please_ ,” Aziraphale very nearly begged, and if Crowley hated himself before, it was nothing compared to the vitriol that he felt when he saw tears, actual _tears_ , in Aziraphale’s eyes. “Crowley, I’m--- I’m _sorry_ , I don’t know--- I don’t _understand_ \---”

“No, you don’t,” the demon snapped, retreating. His insides were writhing like so many snakes, and he wished, he very nearly _prayed_ that he could stop himself, but all he seemed to be able to do was dig himself deeper and deeper into this pit. “You don’t understand, and that’s the problem, isn’t it? Because you’ve never bothered, have you? Never tried to see what it’s been like for me, how it’s _felt_ , being this close for so long, and every time I try to move closer, and you pull away again and again _and again_ , but then you come back, and we start the whole blessed thing over again, and you’re not even _trying_ to understand what it’s like for me, are you?”

All Aziraphale could do was stare now. Crowley could see the faintest hint of understanding in his eyes, and far from causing any sort of soothing balm of relief, anger boiled up again, hotter and sharper than before. Because Aziraphale really _hadn’t_ tried to understand before, had he? Not if that look of slowly dawning comprehension was any indication. Crowley spun on his heel, and started towards the door.

“Crowley!” He didn’t stop. If he turned around now, if he looked at the angel who was scrambling to find his feet underneath him in order to follow, he knew he would say something he would regret. “Crowley, please, _don’t go_.”

One hand on the door, and Crowley did stop this time. Aziraphale’s footsteps stopped a few feet behind him. There was a shaky breath, and a sniffle, and _Someone give me strength, he’s crying_ \---

"Stay,” Aziraphale managed, his voice every bit as watery as Crowley knew his eyes were. "Please."

“I can’t.” Crowley’s own voice cracked, and fell to pieces at his feet. He pushed the door open, and left.

\--

[1] - “You could just leave them drawn all the time, angel. Then no one would ever come in.”   
“That’s not the proper way to run a business, my dear.” Aziraphale did, after all, have standards. [return]

[2] - It had, in fact, been a gift from Crowley, as an anniversary gift for the tenth year of the shop being open. Neither of them remembered this, because when he had shown up to give it to Aziraphale, he was promptly invited in to share some celebratory wine, and so they were both rather drunk when the exchange took place. [return]

[3] - It’s fair to note that, at this point, Crowley didn’t even remember his own point. But he was nothing if not stubborn, and he _knew_ his point had nothing to do with birds. [return]

[4] - He wasn’t. Self-hatred is its own intoxicant, and easily overpowers any others. [return]


	3. tuesday

Crowley never realized how quiet his apartment was.

He had taken a longer route home, blasting music to try to get his brain to shut up for a bit. But the Bentley seemed to know his mood, and was only willing to play songs that were terribly appropriate for his tumultuous thoughts, no matter how many times he angrily flipped to a new station.

_\---let’s be sinners to be saints_  
_And let’s be winners by mistake_  
_The world may disapprove_  
_But my world is only you---_

_\---be appalled if I saw you ever try to be a saint_  
_I wouldn’t fall for someone I thought couldn’t misbehave_  
_But I want you to know that I’ve had no love like your---_

_\---this woman was singing my song_  
_Lovers in love and the other’s run away_  
_Lover is crying cause the other won’t stay---_

_\---I would cross the line_  
_I would waste my time_  
_I would lose my mind_  
_They say she’s gone to far this time_  
_Don’t blame me, love made me crazy_  
_If it doesn’t---_

He gave up after ten minutes, and suffered through _Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy_ for the rest of the drive.[1]

And then he was back at his apartment, and had to face the silence.

He could hear traffic from the street. Someone down the hall shouted about rent prices for twenty minutes to someone on the phone.[2] A dog barked as its owner returned home downstairs.

And then night rolled in, and there was silence. The silence found Crowley in his kitchen with an empty bottle of wine as he cursed at the corkscrew while trying to open another. He had shed his jacket and sunglasses, and once he had a fresh glass poured, he stalked through his apartment muttering to himself. He had considered putting on some music, but couldn't find anything that didn't remind him of Aziraphale.

So he muttered to himself angrily, berating himself for his outburst, debating whether or not to call and apologize.

"He doesn't want to hear from you," Crowley told himself firmly around midnight, two bottles of wine in him and a third sitting on his desk. He swiped the plant mister up from where it sat on an end table and decided to do some gardening. "You made an arse of yourself, you idiot, you made him _cry_." He made a disgusted noise, spraying the orchids rather more aggressively than necessary. " _Idiot_ ," he hissed. The orchids trembled.

By two am, Crowley had given up on gardening[3] and was lying on his on the living room floor. "You need t' apologize," he slurred. Three bottles down now. "Tell 'im you were being stupid."

Four am found him face down in his bed, very much still awake. "Can't ever see 'im again." Four bottles of wine and half of a bottle of rum. "S'done, you fucked yourself. You always do."

Sunrise had him out on the balcony, sitting on the ground with his back against the door and looking out over the city. "Gotta say something." Four bottles of wine, and one bottle of rum. He had started to slow down. "Gotta tell him… no. No, don't tell him _that_. Anything but that."

Nine am, and he was back in bed, this time on his back and staring at the ceiling. No more alcohol after the rum, and while he had started to sober up, he wouldn't let all the alcohol leave his bloodstream for fear of having to face himself. This would usually be the time when he would head out across town to Soho, maybe pick up something for breakfast, maybe just coffee, and drop in on the angel with a nonchalant, "Morning, brought you something to eat. Nah, no trouble, got coffee for myself, figured I'd get you something, don't worry about it."

But not today.

Today, he couldn't bear the thought of going back to pretending like nothing had happened. Because something had happened. Something big. And Crowley needed to figure out how the hell to get out of this one.

* * *

_Closed for Inventory_  
_A Z Fell & Co Booksellers appreciates your interest_  
_We will reopen soon_

Aziraphale insured that the sign was once again hanging properly in the door, and double checked the locks. They would, of course, be no real barrier for when Crowley came over.

If. If Crowley came over.

Because it was almost lunchtime, and Aziraphale had checked the doors four times since nine. The first time had been to make sure that they were still locked. The second time, at ten, had been to see if Crowley was, in fact, unable to get in and was working himself into frustration outside. The third time, at half past, had been for the same reason. And again at eleven.

But Crowley was still absent. And Aziraphale was worried.

He knew Crowley was not in any danger, of course. He wasn't worried about that. No, he was worried that he had broken something the previous evening. Crowley had seemed angry, properly angry, and had stormed out. This was unprecedented. And yet, Aziraphale couldn't help but hope that the demon would saunter into the shop with some pastries and coffee, pretending like he hadn't stopped specifically to pick something up for Aziraphale, and pretend like nothing had happened, and---

He caught himself in that line of thought, and paused in reshelving a book.

That was the problem, though, wasn't it? That was something that Crowley had been angry about, that they regularly pretended like things didn't happen.

"Oh dear," Aziraphale murmured to himself, carefully sliding the book back into place. "Perhaps I should call him…"

He was halfway to the phone when he decided against it, and instead went to make himself a cup of tea. He didn't know what to say, that was the problem. That was _why_ they didn't talk about these things, because they were - Aziraphale could admit this to himself, but very much doubted he could do so out loud - really quite terrible when it came to communication about difficult subjects.

So what was there to do? The fact that Crowley hadn't shown up yet - two pm now, as Aziraphale sat with a miraculously still-warm and untouched cup of tea - so perhaps the demon needed some space. Perhaps they both did, a chance to clear their minds before attempting to talk about things.

Even still, as dinnertime approached, Aziraphale couldn't help but hope that Crowley would call with a casual, "Dinner's on me, where do you want to go?"

Dinnertime passed.

The sun set.

Aziraphale was still sitting alone.

\--

[1] - While it wasn’t exactly an ideal pick, it at least brought Crowley some comfort to know that the Bentley was going back to its old habits, slowly but surely. [return]

[2] - At least Crowley assumed there was a phone involved, since there was no audible response. [return]

[3] - Much to the relief of the plants. The demon’s bad mood was permeating the apartment in a very substantial way, and they were glad not to be the center of his attention any longer. [return]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the songs the bentley was playing at crowley are, in order:  
> Sinners, Lauren Aquilina  
> Nobody, Hozier  
> Stay (I Missed You), Lisa Loeb  
> Don’t Blame Me, Taylor Swift
> 
> i recommend all of them to be added to any ineffable husband playlists y'all have, because they're definitely on mine!


	4. wednesday morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my goodness you guys, i have been THRIVING on all your comments 😂
> 
> i promised a happy ending, and y'all have suffered long enough <3  
> enjoy~

Wednesday morning dawned bright and chilly. Aziraphale was making himself some tea.[1] He was trying to convince himself that it would be for the best to call Crowley this morning, at least to check in on him. Even if they weren't going to talk, it would at least help if there was an open line of communication. Right?

Aziraphale sat down at his desk with his latest cup of tea, and looked at his telephone. Would Crowley even want to talk to him? There was only one way to find out. He reached for the receiver.

His hand stopped before he touched it. And he took it back.

No, maybe it was best to wait for Crowley to come to him. After all, Crowley had been the one to leave, so it was for the best to let him have whatever time and space he needed before they saw each other again.

But then again, maybe it was up to him, Aziraphale, to reinstate contact. Given the state Crowley had left in, it might show the demon that Aziraphale was invested in their friendship.

He paused in reaching for the phone again. Friendship. Hm.

That wasn't quite right anymore, was it?

Aziraphale was startled out of his musing as the front door slammed open. "Angel!" Crowley's voice called.

He hastened to his feet, leaving the tea behind, and hurried to the front of the shop. He was met with Crowley looking agitated and anxious and still a little angry. His hair was a mess, and he was wearing the same clothes. "Er," was all Aziraphale could think to say as he wrung his hands.

"No, listen," Crowley said sharply. "I've got something to say, and you're going to listen to me."

"I--- er, yes," Aziraphale said unsteadily, a little taken aback. "Yes, of course."

But Crowley didn't say anything immediately. He just glared at Aziraphale, and ran a hand through his hair. "Look," he started. Then stopped. "Look," he said again.

"Would you like to sit down?" Aziraphale offered, motioning towards the backroom.

"No," Crowley snapped. Then huffed. "Fine, yes, go on." He waved Aziraphale on first, and followed him. The angel settled himself into his armchair, but perched on the edge, not letting himself relax just yet. Crowley was here, Crowley had come back. Surely that was a good sign?

But the demon didn't sit. Instead, he began pacing up and down the room. "Look," he began once more, not looking at Aziraphale, "I shouldn't've left like I did."

Aziraphale opened his mouth to assure him that he understood, that it was all right, that they could talk about it now, but Crowley stopped him.

"No, shh," he said quickly, "just listen, all right?" Aziraphale closed his mouth and nodded. "I shouldn't've left like that, but I was pissed, and I couldn't talk about it when I was that angry. Wouldn't've ended well. But I'm here now, because we need to talk about it. _I_ need to talk about it," he corrected himself, as a reminder that Aziraphale should still stay quiet. "Because it's important to me that you understand this, okay? It's been ages, and I haven't been able to say anything, because there's been, y'know, _stuff_ going on, but stuff isn't going on anymore, so I need to say something." He stopped pacing, and went silent.

Aziraphale wondered if he was allowed to speak yet. He opened his mouth again as the silence stretched, but Crowley shook his head sharply, and Aziraphale went quiet again. All right, so Crowley still had something to say. But he seemed to be having difficulty actually saying it.

"It's stupid," he said finally. "Stupid. But I'm gonna say it anyway, because… because I’m tired of not saying it.” He swung around to look at Aziraphale, who obediently continued to say nothing. It was becoming increasingly clear to the angel that Crowley had spent the entirety of the previous day working himself into a proper state about all of this. “I should have said it Saturday night,” Crowley continued. “Should’ve. Didn’t. Almost did. So I’m going to say it now.”

A careful smile was beginning to curl Aziraphale’s lips. As much as Crowley wanted to say whatever it was, it was obviously proving much more difficult than he had planned. Aziraphale wondered if Crowley had practiced this, had said these things to, perhaps, his reflection, as he tried to work out exactly what to say.[2] “My dear,” Aziraphale began softly.

“I said just listen,” Crowley snapped.

Aziraphale smiled. “My dear,” he said again, ignoring this, “it’s all right.”

“No, it’s _not_ all right!” Crowley wrenched his sunglasses off to glare at Aziraphale. “That’s my point, is that everything is not all right. Because I’m tired of not talking about things.”

“I’m not suggesting we don’t talk about it,” Aziraphale corrected gently. “I just hate to see you all worked up like this. It’s all right, because I’m here to listen to whatever you want to say to me. And yes,” he added as Crowley began to interrupt, “I understand that perhaps it’s too little, too late. But I’m here now. So are you. You can say whatever you need to say, and we’ll talk about it.”

Crowley continued to glare at Aziraphale, as if this offer to _say whatever he needed to say_ was some kind of trick. “I---” he started. Then stopped. Aziraphale just smiled placidly up at him. And it was this calmness that seemed to finally push him over the edge. “I love you, all right?” he burst out, sounding thoroughly angry. “I have for centuries, and when you said that you were going to leave London, it made me think you didn’t care enough about me,” his words were tumbling out now, falling over each other in their rush to pass his lips; it was a good thing he didn’t need to breathe, “but then you said you would’ve expected me to come, but you still were going to _leave_ , as if we didn’t have a life here, as if everything we talked about that night meant nothing to you, and then we _didn’t talk about it_ like we always do, and I can’t do that anymore, Aziraphale, I can’t _not_ talk about things, because we haven’t talked about things for bloody ages, but I love you, I love you so much, and I can’t not talk about it anymore, not after the world almost ended, not after I thought I lost you for good.”

Aziraphale let out a slow breath, and felt a wave of relief wash over him. “I know, my dear,” he said softly, rising to his feet. “I’m very glad to hear you say it.”

Something of the fire within Crowley seemed to fizzle out at this gentle acceptance of his ranting. He ran a hand through his hair again, and glanced around as Aziraphale approached him. “How’s the inventory going, then?” he asked.[3]

“I’m afraid yesterday was not quite as productive as I would have hoped,” Aziraphale lamented. He carefully took Crowley’s hand, which made the demon twitch. “I suppose I’ll have to finish up everything tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Crowley asked, looking down at their hands.

“I rather think I have other plans for today,” Aziraphale explained. He reached up with his other hand and tilted Crowley’s head up to look at him. “Crowley. I…” He took a breath, and smiled. “I love you, too.” The satisfaction at saying that, at finally being able to say those words out loud, words that had been etched into his every action for longer than he knew, was enough to make him giddy. He laughed. “I love you so very much. And I really should have told you so much sooner.”

“Definitely should’ve,” Crowley agreed in a grumble, even as the corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “Would’ve saved us a lot of trouble.”

“Oh, I agree. But you also haven’t said anything before now.”

“You’re an _angel_ , you could sense it, couldn’t you?” Crowley pointed out.

“It’s hard to recognize something for what it is when it’s always been there,” Aziraphale explained with another little laugh. “Of course it’s obvious now. It’s been obvious for a couple decades. But there’s been so much else going on, there was never a good time to say it, was there? I suppose we’re both to blame, aren’t we?”

“You more so than me,” Crowley argued. “I’m a demon. Can’t exactly go around professing love, now can I?”

“Ah, I see. And because I’m an angel, it’s all right for me to love a demon, is that it?” Aziraphale challenged with a smirk.

“Look, if you don’t kiss me, angel, I swear I will leave this shop right now.”

There’s something very satisfying about kissing someone for the first time when you’ve spent a long time wondering what it would feel like. For humans, this “long time” might amount to a few years, maybe even a few decades. But when we’re talking about immortal beings who have been in each other’s company for, more or less, six thousand years, “a long time” has a bit of a different meaning. Of course, in the grand scheme of things, six thousand years is a blink of an eye when you’re fated to live until the end of eternity[4], but it is still a noticeable length of time when you can barely even touch the object of your affections when they’re right next to you.

This is all to say that as Crowley’s and Aziraphale’s lips met for the first time, the resulting pulse of joy, satisfaction, and love that went through them both was enough to cause seven different people within a two-mile radius to confess their own love immediately, twenty-three others to spontaneously buy their partners gifts, and fifty-eight to compliment the next stranger they saw.

“I love you,” Crowley breathed over the angel’s lips as they broke apart. “Fuck, angel, I can actually say that now. I love you, constantly, endlessly.”

“I love you, too, my dear, more than anything,” Aziraphale agreed. They were both smiling. “And I shall endeavor to remind you as often as I can, for as long as you’ll have me.”

Crowley chuckled, and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale. “Oh, if you think I’m letting you go now, you have lost your mind. No, the real question is how long _you_ can stand _me_.”

“Mm, yes, well, I think I’ve more than proven by this point that my patience with your dramatics knows no bounds, hm?”

“Oh, shut up.” And Crowley kissed him again. 

  
  
  


Indeed, Aziraphale did not manage to get anything else done in the shop for the rest of the day, being rather more occupied with making up for lost time.

  
  


\--

[1] - Six untouched cups of tea were sitting in various places around the shop. He was making tea for something to do, not because he actually wanted tea. Anyone who regularly drinks tea is familiar with this habit. [return]

[2] - Crowley had. He would die a hundred deaths before he would ever admit this, however. [return]

[3] - Old habits die hard. Changing the subject when the topic became difficult was a very deeply ingrained habit, indeed. [return]

[4] - Unplanned murder notwithstanding, of course. [return]


	5. art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here it is! this wonderful and lovely piece of artwork was done by nathansinart!  
> find him on [tumblr](https://nathansinart.tumblr.com/), [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/nathansinart), and [twitter](https://twitter.com/NathanSinArt)!


	6. last saturday night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> imagine a prologue had a baby with an epilogue. that's what you're getting here (:

_ epilogue :: last saturday night _

"Y'should try sleeping," Crowley told him as midnight passed them. They were both rather drunk. "After ev'rything that happened, you don't think y'could sleep?"

"It's not a matter of, of _could_ ," Aziraphale explained, gesticulating broadly with his glass, "of course I _could_ , but it isn't necessary, my dear, I don't _need_ to."

Crowley laughed and stood and tugged Aziraphale up with him and pulled him into the bedroom. "We're gonna sleep," he told the angel firmly, pushing a set of soft white pajamas into his hands. "You're gonna enjoy it."

Aziraphale looked over the pajamas, closing one eye to see them properly from the alcohol-haze in his head. “These don’t seem like your style, my dear,” he observed.

“They’re not,” Crowley confirmed, already tugging his shirt over his head to change into his own pajamas, black-and-red-striped silk. “For you, of course.”

“For me?” Aziraphale looked down at the pajamas in his hands, then back up at Crowley, but couldn’t seem to formulate any further question.

Crowley paused before pulling his pants off, seeming to realize what he had just said. He straightened, topless and pants unbuttoned, and looked at Aziraphale as seriously as he could manage; the effect was only somewhat undercut by his slight lack of clothing. “Don’t go reading into that,” he commanded. “Figured--- figured day would come, and _something_ would happen--- and it did, didn’t it? Thing happened. So figured, pajamas for you, t’ spend the night.” He looked at the pajamas in question with an almost angry look, as if _they_ were responsible for this sudden awkwardness he was feeling, even in spite of the alcohol in his bloodstream. “Shut up and put ‘em on,” he said finally, turning his back to the angel and going back to changing.

It took a moment; Aziraphale was distracted by the demon’s nearly-naked form, as he always was.[1] Crowley was so wonderfully slim and angular, and Aziraphale so wanted to reach out and trace those lines, to soothe the tension he could always see Crowley carrying so shallowly under the surface. But this wasn’t the time. It never was, to be honest. He, too, turned his back, and methodically set about undressing. He carefully folded each article of clothing - as best as he could, given his intoxication level - and set them aside on a chair before putting on the pajamas.

When he turned back around, he caught Crowley quickly looking away and heading for the bed. “C’mon,” he said, motioning for Aziraphale to join him. In an entirely graceless move, Crowley fell face-forward onto the mattress with a satisfied sigh. “ _Fuck_ , I need sleep after the day we’ve had,” he mumbled, slithering up to the pillows to pull one into his chest.

Aziraphale wobbled over, a bit unsteady, and perched on the other side of the bed. They were both still and silent for a moment.

The moment stretched into another moment. 

Then a full minute.

Then two.

“I thought you were dead.”

Aziraphale turned to look at Crowley. The demon was on his side, facing the angel, clutching a pillow to his chest and half-curled around it, all while determinedly avoiding Aziraphale’s eye and flushing pink. He wasn’t, however, drunk any longer; Aziraphale wasn’t sure why he knew this, but he did anyway.

“In the fire. Thought you were dead,” Crowley repeated, hugging the pillow a little tighter; Aziraphale was suddenly struck by the image of a very small child. “Didn’t even care about Armageddon anymore, after that. S’why I was in the bar. Just wanted to… drink. Drink and wait for everyone else’s lives to end, too.”[2]

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, shifting so he was sitting up on the bed properly. He sobered up himself, even if it seemed like this was going to be a very difficult conversation to have. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t…”

“S’fine,” Crowley cut him off, burying his face in the pillow. “Nevermind,” he continued, his voice soft and muffled; Aziraphale still heard it well enough. “Just meant… everything that happened after, in Tadfield. Glad you came back. Glad you were there. Wouldn’t have gone without you. Then the world might’ve ended proper.”

Without realizing it, Aziraphale had started to reach out towards the demon. His hand hovered a few inches above Crowley’s shoulder before he seemed to think better of it, and pulled his hand back. “I’m glad I was able to find you,” he said gently. “I worried, you know, that maybe you had left like you said you would.”

"Wouldn't've left without you," came the mumbled response. "S'the whole point, leaving _with you_. Not just leaving."

Aziraphale frowned a little, glad that Crowley was hiding his face, because he wasn't able to stop it. He _had_ wanted to leave with Crowley, he really, truly had. But he couldn't, not without at least trying to talk some sense into Heaven, realizing too late that that was impossible. Now, though… now? Their lives had been upended, his own faith had been shattered, the world was in chaos. Now, what _was_ keeping them on Earth? "We could go now," he said delicately. And he put his hand on Crowley's shoulder. "Together."

Crowley was very still for a very long moment. He felt his heart hammering against his chest, and something blossomed there. Something warm, something bright. The same something that had burst through his misery in the bar when Aziraphale's hazy, insubstantial form had appeared across from him. _Hope_.

But it was quickly overshadowed by something heavy and encompassing. Slowly, he shifted the pillow so just his eyes were visible, and he looked at Aziraphale. "We can't," he whispered. "They'd find me. Us. We ruined everything for them. You know they're not going to let us go that easily." Aziraphale's expression was composed, but Crowley still saw understanding flicker in his eyes. "We're safe for now, they're too busy trying to call off their armies. But they _will_ find us, Aziraphale. You know they will."

"Let them," Aziraphale said gently. Crowley shifted to raise his head, clearly about to argue, so Aziraphale pressed on swiftly. "Let them come for us. We can stand against them, together."

"Angel, we _can't_ ," Crowley implored. He sat up, and caught Aziraphale's hand as it fell from his shoulder, holding it in both of his own on top of the pillow in his lap. "They could _destroy_ us. I can't let that happen to you." The words tumbled out even as he tried to stop them. Crowley dropped his eyes, and made to let go of Aziraphale's hand.

But the angel held his tightly. Crowley looked back up at him. "I would rather not have any harm come to you either, Crowley," Aziraphale said softly. "I know what sorts of things they can do. But if we can't run, then our only choice is to stand and fight."

"Fight?" Crowley repeated, somewhat incredulous. "We are so entirely outmatched, especially if--- look, Beelzebub and Gabriel showed up, and they _agreed_ with each other," he pointed out. "You have to realize what that means if either head office comes after us. We ruined everything for _both sides_. They're _both_ going to be out for blood. I don't think you'll be getting a rude note this time."

Aziraphale pursed his lips. He knew Crowley was right, and thinking about Heaven and Hell working together in any capacity, especially if it was directed against the two of them? "Troubling," he murmured.

Crowley laughed, completely humorlessly. "Troubling? No, 'troubling' is wondering if you've left the kettle on. This is a little beyond that." He squeezed the angel's hand, looking down at it. Their fingers were still intertwined, although neither seemed to be willing to acknowledge this fact. Crowley took a deep breath. "Angel," he said softly; Aziraphale looked up at him, although Crowley avoided looking back, "I'd do anything to keep you safe. But I don't know if I can this time."

He jolted as Aziraphale reached up his free hand to touch his cheek, gently tilting Crowley's head up. "I know we've had - if you'll excuse my language - one hell of a day---"

"Accurate," Crowley mumbled.

"---but the Crowley I know doesn't just give up," Aziraphale continued, smiling just a bit. "The Crowley I know faces adversity with bravado and hope, in spite of overwhelming odds. Lest we forget, you were instrumental in averting Armageddon."

"Hard to forget." Crowley sighed, and dropped his eyes. He leaned against Aziraphale's hand and for a moment, just for a moment, let himself _believe_ there was a way out of this, and that he and Aziraphale would have hundreds - if not thousands - more years together. Hope was a dangerous thing.

"We'll find a way," Aziraphale said.

"Let's pretend," Crowley said, resigning himself to the idiotic and annoying hope rising in his chest, "there was a way to… fight back against Hell. Or Heaven. A way to challenge them and not be completely obliterated in the process. Where do we even begin?"

Aziraphale's cautious smile widened a tick, and he slowly moved his hand from Crowley's face. With a gesture, he summoned a slip of paper, charred at the edges, and very old. "Mistress Nutter might have an idea about that."

Crowley looked at the scrap, and read the prophecy with a furrowed brow. " 'Choose your faces wisely'? What does that…?" His question trailed to silence, and he looked back up at the angel. "No," he said.

"We must assume that this has something to do with our current predicament," Aziraphale pressed, ignoring the initial denial. "If Heaven were to attempt to kill _me_ , an angel---"

"Aziraphale---"

"---they would know exactly how to go about that, yes?" He continued ignoring Crowley. "There are, after all, very few ways to kill an angel. Or a demon, at that. So if either office were to attempt to kill someone who merely _looked_ like the being they were after---"

"Aziraphale, _no_ ," Crowley cut in sharply. "Stop, just stop."

"My dear, please just consider---"

"I did, and _absolutely not_."

"I would gladly take your place if it gave you a chance to---"

"Stop it!" Crowley's raised voice was enough to finally quell Aziraphale's optimism. Crowley took a breath. "It's stupid. It's _dangerous_. I'm not going to let you take on my appearance just to… what? To _hope_ we can trick them?"

"Would you do it for me?" Aziraphale asked softly.

"Would I---? How could you ask that, Aziraphale, of _course_ I would if it meant there was a chance, but I wouldn't - _couldn't_ \- ask the same of you. It's too…"

"Dangerous?" the angel prompted carefully. Crowley glared at him, so he continued, "More dangerous than _fraternizing_ with the enemy for six thousand years? More dangerous than braving consecrated ground for that enemy? Than attempting to stop Armageddon? Than facing down Satan himself?"

"You're missing the point," Crowley tried.

"Am I? I rather think _you_ are the one---"

"No, I understand perfectly what the risks are, and that's exactly why---"

"The risks are worthwhile if it means there's a chance---"

"You're not _listening_ , angel, it's more complicated than---"

"Than what? It seems fairly straightforward, and unless you can offer a good---"

Crowley wrenched his hand out of Aziraphale's and grabbed his shoulders. "I can't lose you again!"

Aziraphale closed his mouth.

"I _won't_ lose you again," Crowley continued, even as he felt his face heat up. It was very hard to look directly at Aziraphale, so he didn't. "I thought you were _dead_ , Aziraphale, gone, properly gone when I found your shop on fire. You can't…" His voice cracked, and he pulled his hands back suddenly. He swallowed, and turned away. "You can't ask me to go through that again. Please."

Silence descended in the bedroom. For a full minute, neither of them seemed to have anything to say.

Crowley could feel his mind spinning. It was the truth, there was no denying that. But the fact that he needed Aziraphale around, that his life was empty without the angel, that had always been something he had never admitted to out loud. He had barely even admitted it to himself.

And here he was, trying to figure out how to come back from the admittance so Aziraphale wouldn't have to argue, to tell him once again that they were hereditary enemies, that they were barely friends, that---

"Would you like to lay down?" Aziraphale asked quietly.

"Yeah," Crowley mumbled, "could use some sleep. Both of us. For the best. Dunno what tomorrow's gonna be like." He shifted towards the pillows and flopped down on his stomach, burying his face in a pillow to make it easier to avoid Aziraphale. It was better this way, he thought, to pretend he hadn't said what he'd said. That's what they were best at, wasn't it? Ignoring implications and carefully sidestepping messy conversations.

He could feel Aziraphale laying down on the other side of the bed.

"I'm sorry." Aziraphale's voice was soft, and Crowley wished he wouldn't say anything. "You're right, I wasn't thinking about… what it would be like for you. Today has been a bit of a mess, and it's my mistake in forgetting what you've been through."

"S'fine," Crowley muttered, not lifting his head.

"It's not fine, my dear."

"It's _fine_ ," Crowley said more firmly, turning his head to glare at the angel. He was lying on his back, and looking right back at Crowley. "You went through plenty today, too. It's fine."

Aziraphale took a deep breath, and turned onto his side to face the demon. "I won't lose you either, Crowley," he murmured. "I can't. You… to me, you are---"

"Please don't." Crowley's voice cracked, and he buried his face back in his pillow. "We should sleep. We'll figure everything out in the morning."

Aziraphale hesitated, then reached out to touch Crowley, a hand on his back. Crowley didn't react. "We should sleep," he agreed in a murmur, "but I think it's important for you to know… to understand…. Crowley, you've been so patient with me, and you've always been there when I need you most, and even when I was awful to you, you still never turned your back on me, and---" He paused. Crowley was shaking slightly, almost vibrating. "Crowley?"

"You don't have to say it," the demon managed, his voice wavering in a way that gave away the reason he still hadn't raised his head. "We can just sleep." He stopped himself from adding _please_.

"You are very important to me," Aziraphale said finally. "And I know the risks are astronomical, but if we do nothing, our chances are very near zero of making it out alive. I wouldn't ask if I thought we had another option. But I'm… Crowley, I'm terrified of losing you, and---"

Aziraphale was stunned into silence as, all at once, Crowley was pulling into him, clutching his sleep shirt, and sobbing into his chest. "Oh, _Crowley_ ," Aziraphale murmured, wrapping his arms around the demon and holding him tightly.

"Please don't leave me," Crowley gasped through his tears. "Aziraphale, I can't--- I couldn't make it without you, and if this goes sideways and something happens and you get hurt or-or _die_ , I'd never forgive myself and---"

"Shhh, it's all right," Aziraphale whispered, stroking the demon's head. "I know, my dear, I know."

Comfort was something Aziraphale was well-versed in offering, even if he had never offered it to Crowley, strictly speaking. Of course, Crowley had never let himself be comforted by the angel, so they were both to blame, in the grand scheme of things. So Aziraphale simply held him and continued petting his hair for the next few minutes as Crowley struggled to regain anything resembling composure.

Even as his fear and anxieties began winding down, however, Crowley was already trying to figure out a way to push this all away, to try to pretend as if he hadn't just broken down at hearing Aziraphale's admission that he was just as important to the angel as the angel was to him. Obviously it had been an emotionally draining day. Or week. There was something to that, surely; yes, that was it, his emotions had frayed because of the stress he had been under recently, and that was why he had broken down. Not because he was now wrapped in an embrace he had always dreamed of, not because they could no longer hide behind pretenses of opposing sides and were forced to confront their feelings, not because he was terrified that Aziraphale admitting he cared was an omen that foretold disaster.

No, clearly it was just Armageddon.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"Nothing to be sorry for."

"Just been… exhausting, last few days."

"I know, my dear."

"Shouldn't've done that."

"It's all right."

"Should probably sleep."

Aziraphale smiled a bit to himself. He knew what Crowley was doing. "We'll get through it, Crowley," he assured the demon. "But in the meantime, yes, I do believe we've both earned the opportunity to sleep."

Crowley didn't move for a moment. He knew he should pull back, roll over with his back to Aziraphale, and let himself pass out. But it was far too comfortable like this, held in an impossibly warm embrace.

"Sweet dreams, my dear." Aziraphale adjusted slightly so they were both more comfortable, but did not let go of Crowley.

Ten minutes later, Crowley asked, in a nearly inaudible voice, "Did you mean it?"

"Every word," Aziraphale confirmed.

It might not have been exactly what he wanted, but it was a step in the right direction, wasn't it?

"Do you remember," Aziraphale started, a smile in his voice, "that masquerade in… oh, must have been late 17th century France."

"The one where you spilled four glasses of wine?"

"Three," the angel corrected tersely.

Crowley laughed. "Only because I caught the fourth."

"During the course of the evening," Aziraphale pressed on firmly, "you were nearly arrested, until I intervened. They were attempting to charge you with murder, if I recall."

"I had it under control."

"I have my doubts about that, my dear."

"Really, terrible timing, in the middle of a party," Crowley said airily.

"They did love their dramatic timing," Aziraphale remarked. "My purpose in bringing this up is to remind you that I have always… what's that expression? Had your back."

"I know, angel."

"I'm sorry that I've given you reason to doubt that over the years."

"I suppose I always sort of knew." Crowley thought for a moment, then pulled in closer. His face was still hidden, and he was talking to Aziraphale's chest. It was easier to ignore what they were doing if they didn't have to look each other in the eye, after all. "Remember Japan, sixteenth century?"

It was well over an hour later when exhaustion finally caused their reminiscing to fade into mumbled conversation that eventually petered out into sleep.

  
  
When they awoke the next morning, both pretended to be asleep for at least twenty more minutes, just to enjoy still being wrapped up together. As they finally separated, neither speaking, there was a silent agreement between them to simply act as thought the past twelve hours hadn't happened.

\--

[1] - There had been eras in history that were not nearly as prudish as the current one. Aziraphale had always found Crowley to be beautiful in the same way a jaguar is beautiful: slim, lithe, and almost certainly dangerous. Likewise, Crowley had always thought of Aziraphale as akin to a swan: elegant, poised, and possessing little hesitation in striking out when something displeased him. They would admit these thoughts to each other within a few years. Probably. [return]

[2] - Crowley was not talking about Aziraphale's life having apparently ended, although it would be difficult to get him to admit this. For now. [return]

**Author's Note:**

> wanna chat? make a new friend? give me a prompt for a one shot? [join me on tumblr!](https://effable-ineffability.tumblr.com/)


End file.
